Buntline was drunk again, but at least he was standing, his black suit looked only slightly wrinkled, his bowler hat was cocked to one side. His boots were on the wrong feet. He was trying to remember his real name before he took the name of Ned Buntline as his pen name. He smiled as he finally remembered. Ed Judson. Yeah. That was it.
He had one hand on the crank that attached to the battery in Cody’s jar, and from time to time, with much effort he would crank it, giving Cody the juice. When he did, the liquid glowed, Cody’s head vibrated and his hair poked at the amber fluid like jellyfish spines.
Frank Reade, the inventor of the steam man and the airships (he had improved on the German design), had donated the steam-driven man to Cody to promote his line of products. Reade had come to prominence pursuing Jesse James and his gang across the U.S. with his steam-driven team of metal horses, and now his products ruled the United States and were spreading rapidly across the world. Even if he had failed to capture James.
The steam man Cody used had been modified. The head with its conical hat through which steam had been channeled, had been removed, and the steam now puffed out a tube in the back, a tube that carried the steam above the jar and spat it high at the sky like periodic orgasmic eruptions.
Where the steam man’s hat had been, Cody’s jar now fastened, and on top of the jar was a great big white hat with a beaded hatband.
On the steam man’s feet were specially made boots of buffalo leather, dyed red and blue, decorated with white and yellow beads. On the toes of the boots there were designs of buffaloes cavorting.
In his room, Cody had a pair that were similar, only on the toes of the boots the buffaloes were mating. He wore those when he went out with the boys.
As the zeppelins dropped, escorted by the Japanese biplanes, Japan swelled up to meet them, showed them fishing villages of stick and thatch and little running figures. Farther inland the sticks gave way to thousands of colorful soldier tents tipped with wind-snapped flags as far as the eye could see. Samurai, in bright leather, carrying long spears with banners attached and swords at their sides, lifted their helmet-covered heads to watch the zeppelins drop. From above, the Japanese in their armor appeared to be hard-shell beetles waiting for a meal to land politely into their mandibles.
As the zeppelins glided toward the long runway, bordered by soldiers, the band went silent, and Cody yelled to Goober through the talk tube.
“Turn me and raise a hand.”
Goober worked the controls. The steam man hissed and turned, raised a hand. Buntline, from experience, adjusted the talk tube so that it faced the crowd on the deck.
Cody boomed and gurgled. “My friends. This is an important mission. Relations with Japan over the Custer fight are strained. We are here to entertain, but we are also here as ambassadors. As role models for the others, I must ask special things of you. I need advise Mrs. Oakley not at all, but men. Stay off the liquor. They have a particularly nasty drink here called sake. Don’t touch it. Keep your Johnsons in your shorts. Pass this word along… No offense, Annie.”
Annie blushed.
“And men, try not to get into fights. I have dealt with the Japanese. For a time I was an ambassador to Japan. They are extremely good hand-to-hand fighters. They have a thing they call Daito Ryu Jujitsu. Boxing and brawling stand up to it poorly. They can tie you in more knots than a drunk mule skinner. Trust me on this. And in case you have not noticed, you are outnumbered. They have few guns, on the planes mostly, but they are absolutely magical with the weapons they carry. Stay in camp. You will be treated well. Abide by all the rules I have laid out, or I’m gonna be madder than the proverbial wet hen.
“So now. What do we say?”
Up went the cry: “WILD WEST SHOW FOREVER.”
“Hickok,” Cody said sharply.
“Oh, all right,” Hickok said, his face red. “Wild West Show Forever. Okay, now I’ve said it… I didn’t hear Bull say it.”
“Bull?” Cody said.
“Hey, me say thing,” Bull lied.
Once moored and disembarked, The Wild West Show — seven hundred strong, escorted by a clutch of Samurai and a robed translator who was also the Shogun’s Master Physician — was amazed and delighted and a little frightened by the variety of armor and weapons, the ferocious appearance of the Japanese warriors.
Fragrances of food and body oils unfamiliar to them wafted through the air and stuffed their heads like mummy skulls packed with incense and myrrh, a musty beetle or two, a slice of raw fish.
They gravitated toward a great black tent, the peak of which was tipped with a pole and black pennant wriggling in the wind like a small ray with its tail pinned by a rock.
There was much formality. The Americans tried to bow at the right time and look pleasant. Cody, in his jar, could only grin. In his steam man arms, Cody carried a red and blue Indian blanket wrapped around gifts from President Grant. So heavy were they, he could not have carried it with his own natural arms. The gifts were for the Shogun, Sokaku Takeda.
When the rituals were complete, Cody spoke through his tube. “From President Ulysses S. Grant to you.”
Since the steam man could not bend completely over, Hickok and Bull came forward, took hold of the blanket on either side and lifted it from the steam man’s arms. Sweat popped on their heads as they lowered the blanket and its burden onto a bright runner at the front of Takeda’s tent.
Takeda, a small man dressed in colorful robes, his hair bound up and pinned at the back, sat, and magically, a retainer produced a camp chair. It was beneath Takeda’s rear even as it appeared he would fall backwards.
Takeda spoke a few sharp words and two more retainers appeared, unrolled the blanket. Inside were eight bars of gold and eight of silver, a bright Henry rifle, two black oak-handled revolvers, their silver barrels shiny as cheap fillings in a miner’s mouth. With them were two black buffalo-leather holsters pinned with silver conchos. There was also a bandoleer of ammunition.
Takeda grunted. In response to this noise, a retainer brought forth a wrapped parcel, unrolled it at the steam man’s feet. Cody could not bend his neck, so the contents of the blanket were lifted and unwrapped by Hickok and Bull for his inspection.
Inside the blanket was a long sword and a short one, encased in what looked like black bone scabbards, but were in fact, highly lacquered leather.
Words were exchanged. It was determined a demonstration would be given of Grant’s presents by Annie Oakley.
They retired to a large patch of land next to the tent. Annie strapped on the holsters and the black-handled revolvers. She was wearing a black hat, black dress, black stockings and lace-up black shoes. She turned to Hickok and smiled.
She was so beautiful, Hickok felt his knees weaken. Then he remembered it was his job to reach into the bucket provided and toss glass balls at the sky. He snatched one, threw it high. The guns jumped from Annie’s holsters. BLAM, a blast tore from one of the revolvers and the ball burst. Hickok reached in with both hands, tossed high with his right, then high with his left, snatched up other balls and flung them rapidly, one after the other.
Annie fired first one revolver, then the other. She seemed casual, as if she were thinking about something else. But each time the balls exploded. Soon Captain Jack was helping Hickok toss. The guns snapped and the balls exploded. Annie reloaded three times, never missed.
A deck of cards was produced. Captain Jack took one from the deck, held it with the edge facing Annie. She loaded and holstered the pistols. Took a breath. The revolvers leapt from their hutches, coughed. The edge of the card was cut in two places, torn from Captain Jack’s hand.
Now Bull came forward, a fat cigar in his mouth. He was puffing savagely, trying to get as much from the smoke as he could. He stood sideways, the ash on the cigar standing out a quarter inch.
Annie slowly lifted the right hand pistol, shot off the ash. She lifted the left hand pistol and shot the cigar in half. Bull pocketed the butt and stepped off the fi
eld, saying, “Machin Chilla Watanya Cicilia.”
In Sioux this meant “My daughter, Little Miss Sure Shot.”
Now Annie picked up the Henry, cocked it. “Let ‘er rip,” she said.
Hickok, Captain Jack, Bull, and an African Zulu king named Cetshwayo grabbed from two buckets of glass balls and charged them at the sky. The rifle went up, moved left and right, up and down, barking at every change in direction. The balls exploded all over the sky.
Finished, Annie placed the butt of the Henry on her lace-up shoe and bowed ever so deeply. Takeda grunted. A retainer stepped forward, yelled words, the Samurai let out a roar of approval.
It was then decided Takeda would demonstrate.
He rose from his chair, which had been placed in the field, and yelled. Two armored men came charging out of the ranks, their hands lifted to strike. They struck at Takeda with extreme ferocity, but, with minimal movement, Takeda sent them flying.
They rose, came again. An arm cracked, a man screamed. Takeda struck quickly at the other. Down he went. Silent. A puff of dust from the field hung over him for a moment, thinned, disappeared.
The Wild West Show applauded politely.
The translator and Master Physician came forward then. Said to Cody, “We would like two of your men to try Master Takeda. It would be an insult not to. And it would be an insult not to try and hurt him. They must come at him hard.”
Cody asked for volunteers. Hickok decided, why not, and stepped forward. With him came the tall African, Cetshwayo. Takeda nodded at them. Hickok and Cetshwayo charged. Hickok’s plan was to throw a hard and powerful right, clock the little dude.
His right whistled through the air, and he knew he had Takeda, his fist was almost to the little man’s temple.
Then the little man wasn’t there. Hickok felt pressure on his hip, then he was falling. Cetshwayo attacked by reaching for Takeda’s throat with both hands. Next thing he knew, he was sailing through the air.
Jumping up, Hickok grabbed Takeda’s right hand with both of his. Cetshwayo rose, struck hammer-fist style at Takeda’s face.
Next thing they knew, their arms were entwined and they were both on the ground, held there by Takeda’s left foot.
Takeda raised his hands, his army cheered. Politely, so did The Wild West Show.
Humiliated, Hickok and Cetshwayo skulked back to their group, trying to figure on how Takeda had done it.
Takeda was handed a scabbard and sword. He poked the scabbard through his thick cloth belt. Two naked men were brought forward, they were given swords and shoved toward Takeda.
“What’s happening?” Cody asked the translator through his voice horn.
“Chinese prisoners,” said the translator. “They have been told that if they kill Master Takeda, they are free to go.”
The Chinese, charging together, attacked the little Japanese, swords lifted high.
Takeda swayed left, then right, his sword a flash of light as it left its scabbard. One Chinaman dropped his sword, took a step, then the top half of his body fell off the bottom half. A split second later, the bottom half collapsed. While this was in progress, Takeda made a slice at the remaining swordsman.
The last Chinaman survived with only a cut across his chest. He attacked again. His sword hand went away, his wrist pumped blood. Takeda moved and let out a yell, his sword went through the man’s solar plexus, out his back. With a whipping motion, the sword was freed and the man fell, as if absorbed by the earth.
“That is how the sword is used,” said the translator.
“I see,” Cody said.
Takeda spoke in his harsh voice. The translator bowed, spoke to Cody. “He asks if you, or in this case, one of your retainers, would like to use the sword. We have spare Chinese.”
Knowing that a trap had been laid, that Takeda was testing him, Cody said, “I would not dare make an inaccurate stroke with these metal arms. I am incapacitated. Nor would I insult Master Takeda by using a retainer. I would not want anyone else to touch such a magnificent gift as the swords given me by him, and if another sword were offered for my use, it would be an insult to his generosity.”
This was duly translated. After a moment of consideration, Takeda nodded. His army cheered.
Annie had not meant to let it happen again, but by nightfall she had invited Hickok into her bed. They made love for a long time, then lay together looking at the ceiling, bathed in soft lantern light.
“Takeda murdered those men,” Annie said.
“Yes he did,” Hickok said.
“Savages.”
“Not too unlike what we did to Bull’s people.”
“Not like that. Surely, it wasn’t like that.”
“I guess you never heard of Sand Creek?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Neither do most white people. Especially since innocent Cheyenne were slaughtered there for the amusement of white Colorado Volunteers. Women and children were scalped. Tobacco bags were made from parts of their skins, their private parts. And the Little Big Horn. My friend Audie was killed there, and made into a hero, but he was a fool. The Sioux and the Cheyenne were merely protecting themselves, and we call it a massacre.”
Annie rose up, put her back against the oak headboard. Though normally modest, now mad, she allowed the sheet to slip away, revealing her breasts. In the lantern light the nipples stuck out like the tips of .44 caliber slugs, the rings around her nipples were dark as burnt powder.
In spite of her anger, or perhaps because of it, Hickok felt aroused again.
“Are you saying I don’t care about what was done to Indians? You know better. Bull is an Indian and I love him dearly.”
“I’m saying, you’re human. Like me. We don’t see what’s in our own country as bad, any more than these folks do. Or by the time we do, it’s too late.”
Annie relaxed. “You’ve changed, Bill. I never knew you to feel this way.”
“The Wild West Show, which I don’t care for, I might add, changed me. I don’t like all these plays and speechifying, but when you spend enough time with people with different skin you start thinking of them differently.”
“You’re a real pain, Bill. Frank never disagreed with me.”
“I’m not Frank.”
“You certainly aren’t.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I’m beginning to think it’s good.” Annie took hold of one of her breasts, arched her back, and in a voice Hickok had never heard before, said, “Baby, you want to nurse?”
“Oh. You betcha.”
Inside the black and yellow tent of the Master Physician, Sokaku Takeda, thirty-third grandmaster of Daito Ryu Aikijujutsu, sponsor of the diplomatic invitation to The Wild West Show, Shogun, soon to be ruler of Japan, watched as two soldiers held the monster’s lashed down left leg firm.
When the soldiers had it held tight, the Master Physician sawed off the remaining piece of the monster’s left foot, not bothering to cauterize the wound. There was no point. There was no blood in the creature. It was, however, decided it would be best to screw a block of wood to the ankle so they could walk the thing back to its cell and not have to lift it from the carving table and carry it.
Though the monster had no blood, no beating heart, it lived. Its oily black eyes rolled in its greenish face, it shook its head, causing its long, greasy, black hair to thrash back and forth like a veil in a crosswind.
Alive or not, as the soldiers put the block to its nubbed ankle and pushed in the screw with a driver, it bellowed like a bull, began to curse Takeda and all his descendants in guttural English.
The chunk taken from the monster’s foot was placed on a small wood-block table. The Master Physician cut, sliced and diced the piece of dead flesh into a dozen pieces, placed the particles in a little bronze bowl, poured scented oil on it and set it on fire.
The flame leapt green, yellow, subsided. The physician ground the remains into a fine black powder with a pestle. He used a thick piece of cotto
n to pick up the bowl and pour the smoking ashes into a bowl of water. This in turn was run through a white cloth, leaving black residue on the surface. The residue was placed in a rice paper envelope, folded, sealed with wax, given to Takeda, the Master Physician bowing low in the process.
“How long will he last?” Takeda asked.
“He feels pain, but his body is not really harmed like that of a living man. Master Takeda, he will last a long time. I believe he will be alive when only the head is left. Doctor Frankenstein developed a process that causes his brain to live and make the body function. There is blood, but it has nothing to do with life. It congeals more than it runs.”
“Does he eat?”
“He must eat.”
“Does he defecate?”
“Like a water buffalo, sire. He has all the urges of man, but he is a false man. He does not bleed true blood, just the congealed goo. He does not sweat.”
Takeda turned to where the naked monster lay lashed to the table. The creature was tall, and in a way, attractive. But his legs didn’t match. You could see scars where the legs had been fastened with thread and bolts to his hips, same for the knees. His shoulders, elbows, wrists and ankles showed the same sorts of scars. His genitals were massive; testicles like grapefruits, a penis like a dagger scabbard.
The face was the thing, however. It was greenish, the eyes gray and watery. There seemed to be too much bone for the available skin; it didn’t fit right. The lips were black as charcoal, the teeth horse-like and of poor quality.
“You are strange,” said Takeda in Japanese.
The monster, having been a captive now for six months, a piece of him whittled away daily, could understand enough Japanese to know what was said. He replied in English.
“You eat of my flesh to make yourself hard, and you say I am strange. Yours is a life of oddness and ritual, the bizarreness of the living. Like my former creator, Victor Frankenstein, long lost now among the ice floes of the Arctic in a skating accident, I have only simple dark words for you. Eat shit, little man.”
Of course Takeda did not speak English, nor did the soldiers. The Master Physician did, but he lied to Takeda, told him the monster was asking to be freed.